Retribution
by miss-olivia-winchester
Summary: Sam turns sixteen just as someone from John's past resurfaces and threatens everything the Winchesters know and love / Pre-series; Sam is 16, Dean is 20; updating once or twice a week
1. Prologue

**1999**

It was just a month in Minnesota, that's all it should have been. 'Normal' for us Winchester's is in-and-out, maybe two, three weeks, tops. We'd been somewhere for about two months before, and that was hard on both of the boys, though in different ways. I don't think I'll stay more than a month now anywhere. Early on in the year, I heard at a hunter's bar (Clive's I think) rumors of a possible wendigo case in Blue Rock, Minnesota. None of them knew how to deal with one, but I told them I'd handle it. So this April, me and the boys headed over to Blue Rock—a tiny, near-dead town with a lot of campers in tents. That means easy meals for a wendigo.

Sam settled right into the routine of school, because he knows wendigo cases don't take one or two nights. He's always cautious going into new schools, what with the work he'll have to do explaining why he's at his fifteenth school that year. Hell, he's smart enough to be a senior. But at least he likes the classes—that's what he told Dean, anyway. Sammy rarely tells me stuff these days, though I guess he never really was a talkative kid. Dean, on the other hand, tells me everything except girl stuff and things he shouldn't be doing. Dammit, it's hard seeing Dean twenty years old and not getting a real life out there. Part of me wants to cut him loose and never let him hunt, but by God, he's part of it now and he can end this whole thing and avenge Mary. He deserves to.

April 15th, I came so, so close to killing the sonuvabitch, but instead seriously wounded it and it crawled back to its den, which I don't yet know the location of. I came in late that night and Sam was on his laptop, earbuds in and doing homework as he sat on the couch. He barely acknowledged me until I asked him where his brother was, to which he pulled an earbud out and pointed to the room where the beds were. All the lights were off, but I could see Dean's silhouette sleeping in one of the twin beds and I called softly, "Dean! Hey!"

I thought he was out for good and started to leave until I heard him start to moan, "Mom...Mom..." I froze then, hearing him toss and turn and groan louder, until he suddenly let out a scream and bolted upright. He saw me then as he sat panting and sweaty, his eyes wide and unblinking. "It was mom again," Dean admitted after a beat of silence, us just sitting there in the dark. I'm guessing Sam didn't hear anything. I'm going to have to tell him to turn his music down in the future. "You have them, too, right, Dad?" Dean inquired, sounding almost distantly hopeful I'd say yes and understand what he was going through.

Hastily blinking away the goddamn tears in my eyes, I turned away and only told him, "Yes," then went to get a beer. I hate that Dean can only dream of his mother. He needs her with him, sending him off to college or the big city. I need her. Jesus, Mary. Why did you have to go?

Next day Sam came home grumbling about how he was going to kick someone's head in, and since Dean couldn't ask him about it at the time (dinner retrieval), I did. It was interesting, to say the least. It took a bit, but Sammy told me about a girl he liked (he blushed when he told me) and some other 'douch-bag' (Sam's wording) was trying to make a move on her. I honestly didn't have any idea what to say. I'd only ever really loved Mary, and there was no 'douche-bag' involved then. Dean heard about it when he came back with food, and told Sam to kick the guy in the nuts and skip school with the girl. Sammy flushed and told him that she wasn't that kind of girl; he'd met her in mathletes. I asked him what the hell that was, since I was honest-to-God curious. He shut me down with a look and told me shortly that it was a team for people who liked math, and left it at that. Damn, that boy can get moody.

Dean wanted details on the hunt, and before I knew it, he got me to say 'yes' to him joining. The kid is a natural people-person, I've gotta say that. He'll give this big, enthusiastic smile and talk about something so fervently you can't help but sway his way. Sam, on the other hand, speaks softly and wisely. Reminds me of Mary that way, so help me, God. About two weeks in and Dean and I nail the wendigo with a blowtorch. Dean makes some joke about a birthday candle, and when I laugh, he looks so happy. I wished Sammy could've been out there, too, laughing along, but all he wants to do is go to school and get a girlfriend from math club. He doesn't understand. Anderson, Ms. Lyle, Silas...Sam doesn't know a thing about them; he doesn't know how much danger he'd be in if he started living a normal life so young. No, I've got to protect him and teach him to protect himself. God only knows what I'd do if something happened to him or his brother. Then I'd really go off the rails.

Got a call from Bobby the night after we wrapped up the hunt; he said he himself just finished a long, tough case, and that there was a bottle of whiskey waiting for me at his house. Being the 'great' father I am, I decided to go visit Bobby quick and leave the boys in 'harmless' little Blue Rock. We were close enough, anyway, Minnesota to South Dakota. I figured I'd leave them for three days at most, then be back to the motel in no time. I'm a disgrace. I mean, with what happened in the two days I was gone? Only Sam and Dean knew the whole story...


	2. Bowling Shoes

**The previous prologue-ish chapter was in John's perspective, however the rest of the story will be in third-person; this is one of the only fanfics I HAVEN'T started on Fanfiction and I actually finished it before posting any chapters so you will definitely get an ending, I can promise you that!**

 **Review, review, review! Appease the angry gods of writing by simply typing a short response, question, idea, thought, or opinion!**

John had only been gone for twenty minutes and Sam was already grumpy, in his challenging, stubborn way. His older brother had caught him pacing, told him to stop, and handed him a cheeseburger. "Eat," Dean ordered, his deep green eyes sharp. "God, Sam, you just have to complain about everything Dad does. Be glad he's not sending you on a solo hunt." Though earlier ready to speak up at any moment, Sam grew silent at Dean's last comment. Rubbing his hand over his short, sandy-blonde hair, Dean sighed deeply and apologized, "I'm sorry. I know that's something you don't wanna do." He looked about to say something further, but bit his lip softly and turned towards the motel's fridge. Grabbing a bottle of beer and popping it open with the aid of his ring, Dean joked, "Hey, in a year I can _legally_ drink this." Sam's smile was tight-lipped and polite more than anything—he clearly had other things on his mind. Still trying to connect with this younger brother, Dean leaned against the wall near the bed Sam was sitting on and inquired, "So how's it feel to be almost sixteen?"

Seeming to slip out of his brief trance, Sam admitted, "Weird. 'Course, you grew up way before sixteen." There was a bitter edge in his comment, towards their father, that made Dean flinch in an almost indiscernible way. He'd been trying to avoid touchy subjects, but it seemed like that's all Sammy would talk about these days.

"Teenhood can be a bitch," Dean remarked before taking a swig of his beer. Though he offered a drink to Sam, the younger Winchester refused, saying it killed brain cells and he probably wouldn't drink any until he was maybe 18. Dean feigned disbelief and conjured a scoff, but was secretly proud of his little brother for knowing weird facts like that. A few beats of silence, and Dean was already so impatient that he jumped up, swung his army green jacket on, and stepped over to the door. "You want to go out?" he asked Sam, trying to keep the hope for a 'yes' out of his voice and demeanor.

"What would we do?" Sam sighed eventually.

"Bar?" Dean suggested and shrugged.

"What, so you can hit on the lady bartender? No, thanks."

Dean laughed, then looked thoughtful as he told his brother, "How about you pick. Anywhere in this dinky little hell-hole of a town."

As he slipped his own Carhartt jacket on, Sam inquired with a raised eyebrow, "What's so bad about a small town? I think it's kinda cute."

Dean shook his head. "Cute is Meg Ryan's ass. Small towns are where old people go to die."

Sam rolled his eyes with a slight grin and walked to the door, opening it and letting Dean go in front of him. They locked the motel room behind them, and though Dean did have the Impala, it was a short walk downtown, so the two set off on foot. There was a slight chill in the air, since it was early spring in Minnesota, after all. Good weather was never expected late April. But Sam, even in all his defiance to the hunting life, could feel something in the town...a hunch, a gut feeling, call it what you will. He almost told Dean that they should head back since he was so uneasy, but halfway along Main Street, he spotted a building with weathered tan siding and a slate-colored sign that read, 'Miller's Bowling and Bar'. Seeing as it had caught his brother's eye, Dean dropped his head so his chin touched his chest, groaning, "Bowling alley? Seriously?" Sam grinned when he saw his older brother's distress.

Shrugging and feigning abject gloating, he reminded Dean, "You did say anywhere."

Pointing a finger at Sam, Dean said with an irritated but amused smile, "The description of 'hell-hole' still stands."

"At least there's a bar. It's a win-win."

As the two walked in the front doors, Dean complained, "I don't actually have to bowl, do I?"

Grinning mischievously, Sam walked up to the counter and asked for a single lane and two pairs of bowling shoes. The place had a dead, uncomfortable ambience primarily made up of crappy country music played over dull, quiet speakers, a drunk middle-aged man facedown at the bar in the back, and only two people bowling together. "I feel compelled to sing a lonely musical number, "Dean commented, picking up the heaviest bowling ball they had, coincidentally the same shade green as his eyes. Grabbing a dark red ball to test how it felt, Sam set it back down after a moment and began to unlace his boots.

As he was kneeling down and lacing up his bowling shoes (an obnoxious green and orange color scheme), the back of Sam's neck prickled without warning, the hair on his arms standing on end. Standing up slowly and stepping over to Dean, there was fearful uncertainty in his voice as he told him, "Is there...someone watching us?" Because of years of practice and training, Dean's eyes simply sharpened and undetectably scanned the room, showing no sign of fear or surprise. Sure enough, a tall, blonde brute of man had just walked in, carrying a presence with him that the Winchesters had only seen in hunters. Dean whispered to Sam that it was okay to look, and the younger stole a quick glance behind him. "Looks like a hunter," Sam murmured, voicing his brother's thoughts as well as his own. "Do we know him? Does Dad?" Dean looked about ready to speak when—eyes still trained on the hunter—he noticed the man eyeing them. The Winchester brothers watched on covertly as the hunter walked over to the bar and seemed to be asking something of the man employed by the bowling alley—it didn't worry or catch their attention much at first. Until, that is, the man gestured quite obviously to the brothers.

Heartbeat quickening, Dean grabbed ahold of his brother's pocketed jacket, hauling him to his feet and towards the door. Sam quietly protested, knowing that he was leaving his boots behind and stealing the alley' shoes—Dean promptly ignored this and the two exited the building with orange and green bowling lace-ups. The pavement felt strange slapping against the odd soles of their shoes, and a frigid Northern wind bit at the young Winchesters as they fled the area.

"Dean, what the hell was that?" Sam hissed, leaning in with annoyance in his voice and expression.

Steadying his breathing, the older Winchester brother sighed quietly, explaining, "Trust me, he's bad news—for us, at least. His name's Erik Bjorn; he and dad went on a hunt or two when I was, like, six. I'm surprised this dude's even tailing us. I s'pose he's looking for Dead, since he's got some sorta feud with him; no idea why, though."

Looking vaguely thoughtful as the two caught sight of their motel just across the street, Sam speculated, "Maybe he won't do anything to us. Could just be a beef with Dad and he doesn't want us involved."

Dean chuckled drily at that, scoffing, "You know hunters, Sammy. Vengeance is no penny ante for these guys; it's all or nothing. We'll hole up in the motel until Dad gets back, and if things escalate, we'll call him and take off."

Unlocking their room and sliding the key back in his pocket, Sam raised an eyebrow, remarking, "Take off, huh? And what would Dad say about that?"

"Go to the first motel in the phonebook, next town over if we can," Dean answered immediately, as if recited.

Closing the door behind them and landing unceremoniously onto his bed, Sam mused, "I wonder if we could survive a hunt without Dad. I mean, you had that solo three years ago, but beyond that...does Dad even trust us?"

"Shut up," Dean told his brother playfully, laying back on his bed and staring at the ceiling. "He trusts us, he just has more to teach us." Sam bit his tongue then, hesitating from saying anything he was thinking at the moment. He paused for a moment, blinking at Dean, then slid out of the bowling shoes and peeled off his sweaty socks before positioning himself to sleep in the bed he'd been sitting on. Pulling his covers over himself, Sam Winchester thought vaguely of his missed lunch and dinner before drifting off into a dreamless sleep.


	3. Happy Birthday, Sam Winchester

'Der Kommissar' blasted throughout the motel room and awakened Sam, who grunted inhumanly and yelled at Dean, calling out some not-so-nice words. The elder Winchester's wry laugh could be heard at the foot of Sam's bed, and on pure aim practice, Sam took the unused pillow next to him and hurled it at the spot where he'd heard his brother laugh. The pillow hit Dean with a muffled thud and Sam groaned, "Did you sleep at all last night?"

"Nope," Dean admitted candidly, "Not a wink." The minute Sam started to sit up and rub his eyes groggily, the older brother scoffed lightheartedly, "And please, no big figures on sleep deprivation; I do need my sanity for the day." Exhaling a breathy laugh and reaching over to turn off the radio on the nightstand, Sam sat up and set his bare feet on the threadbare brown carpet.

"So did you call Dad?" he inquired, squinting at the sunshine filtering through the window's blinds and standing up to stretch.

Dust floated up lazily in the sunbeams streaming into the room as Dean sat down in the chair just next to the window, sighing deeply, "No. I figured we could handle this on our own; prove we can actually survive by ourselves."

Sam raised an eyebrow, a slight grimace of a smile playing on his lips as he remarked, "Careful, Dean—that almost sounded a little rebellious."

Rolling his eyes, the older Winchester pulled on some thick gray socks and a dark blue flannel, retorting, "No rebellion here. I just..."

"….want to go on more solo hunts?" Sam interrupted. Dean hadn't gone on any more than one, and that had been three years ago.

But he just shook his head, fumbling for words until he finally said, "I'm just sick of hearing you and Dad bicker like an old married couple."

Sam bit his lip, bowing his head and admitting, to Dean's surprise, "Yeah, I'm not proud of that." After a pause, Sam breathed shakily and told his older brother, "It's just...lately I've been thinking about Mom a lot."

"Sammy, don't—" Dean cut in, but Sam gave him a reproachful glance, quickly shutting him down.

"I know it's not my fault she's dead—you and dad have told me that enough. But I'm turning sixteen tomorrow, and I can't stop wondering what we'd be doing if she wasn't dead, if we were...you know, normal."

Silence clung to them like a disease, and Dean, turning his back to his brother, squeezed his eyes shut, blocking any tears threatening to come. He didn't cry. He hadn't cried in, what, ten years, maybe? He wouldn't today. Clearing his throat in an effort to drive away any sympathies, Dean asked his little brother, back still to him, "What do you say we go grab breakfast? We've got nothing here; we'll be quick." After a moment, Sam agreed, happy to have a distraction from his depressing thoughts. So the two put on their jackets and laced up their back-up boots (the bowling shoes had been returned stealthily by Dean late last night), and locked the motel door behind them with an unspoken agreement not to pass by the bowling alley. They settled on a cute little diner with large windows and the feel of a kitchen at home, or a family meal. Sam caught onto this feeling fast, since four Thanksgivings ago he'd spent the evening dining with a girl from school's family. Breakfast contained primarily speculative, trivial conversation, and after Dean finished his pie and Sam, his toast and eggs, they exited the restaurant, decidedly satisfied.

Dean was going off on an anecdote about some werewolf hunt Sam had 'missed out on' when the two heard a slight commotion down the slim alley behind the diner, just beside them. Simply on instinct and principle, Dean pulled out his gun, snapping it in the alley's direction. Sam immediately grabbed his brother's arms and forced them down, hissing quietly, "Dean, there's _people_ on this street."

Blinking rapidly and looking blank for a moment, Dean quickly faked a smile and joked weakly, "Sorry, pie makes me edgy. Especially triple-berry; never eat triple-berry on an off day." The same rustle could be heard again down the alley, and instinctively, the brothers walked cautiously down the path to investigate. "Hello?" Dean called, his gun still ready but shoulders less tense as he aimed it absentmindedly somewhere between the cement ground and rust-red brick wall.

All of the sudden, like some strange jack-in-the-box, Erik Bjorn popped up from behind the large, dull green Dumpster ahead of them. The Winchesters barely had time to react before a large, sturdy hand grabbed Sam and pressed a chloroformed cloth over his mouth and nose. Dean instantly whirled around, aiming his gun at the man his brother was struggling against. Shouting curses, he didn't have the presence of mind to notice Erik Bjorn sneaking up behind him, gun in hand. Pistol-whipping Dean, Erik looked over at his partner, who was holding the younger brother like a rag doll.

"Put the kid in the truck and tie him up," he ordered, and looked down at the unconscious Winchester at his feet. "You boys have the worst luck, don't you?" he breathed lightly, tucking his pistol away and lifting Dean onto the ramp connected to his truck, which he pushed Dean into before closing the back.

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

 _Sleep tight..._

The phrase whispered at the back of Dean's mind as he woke up slowly and painfully, his head throbbing and his feet and hands nearly numb. Where was he? Forcing his eyes open, he took in the slightly familiar surroundings—blue-gray walls, silver-lidded lamps, and tossed, black sheets on the thin brown carpet. He was back at the motel, wrists and ankles bound unnecessarily tight and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "Sam?" He called out, his voice no more than a pathetic croak before he cleared his throat and yelled again, louder, "Sam!" No response.

Desperation building and adrenaline hot in his blood, Dean struggled furiously against his restraints, all the while panting disparately. Rolling over to a window and pulling himself up gradually, he forced feeling into his feet and stood up fully. Though it took a moment to build up the strength and momentum, he then swung his elbow through the window, turning his face away from the flying glass. After every shard had fallen, Dean quickly but carefully picked one up with the curtain shielding his hand, and used the glass piece to cut his ropes, until both his hands and feet were free. Stumbling across the room, he noticed the crisp white folded note next to the cream-colored motel phone on one of the two side tables. It didn't look like the motel's stationary—theirs was blue paper with a black pine tree logo on top. Dean was taught to notice even such small things, and picked up the note suspiciously. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the words written chilled him to the bone.

 _Don't worry, Sammy's safe with me. Do me a favor and call your dad—tell him I've got his son, and I want to talk to him. Any failure of these terms, as well as the terms I present to your daddy, will result in Sam getting some not-so-VIP treatment._

The card was not signed, but Dean knew who it was.

"Bjorn," he growled under his breath as he crumpled the note up in his hand and threw it to the ground sharply. It took everything in him not to tear the room apart out of frustration, but eventually his seething rage was controlled enough so Dean could pick up the motel's phone and begin to dial up his father...

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

His senses came back one at a time, though very rapidly; the slow, echoing drip of water somewhere in whatever large room he was in, the smell of oil and rust, the sensation of being tied to a chair with rope. Opening his eyes and blinking the haze away, Sam Winchester took in his surroundings, which included what looked like the inside of a very large, mostly empty gray warehouse. At the back near the walls sat a few lumps of metal and rust that might've been cars at some point. As far as he could tell, Sam was completely alone in the giant warehouse, its towering ceiling creaking metallically in the wind. A shiver ran down his back and he pulled experimentally at the ropes holding his hands behind his back. Bitterly, he recalled August 1993, when he'd found a Boy Scout's flyer and begged his father to join. Of course John had said no, and of course little Sammy was disheartened. Instead, the Winchester patriarch had taught Sam how to tie and untie knots if he was ever kidnapped—it was just another example of how messed up their life really was, and yet another argument Sam would use someday to tell his dad why he was leaving. Because he was leaving at 18—nothing would stop him. Maybe he'd leave at 19, but it was all a matter of education and timing.

He'd been thinking for about 5 minutes now—it was time to act. Pulling at his bonds and testing for weak spots, Sam scanned the ground for anything sharp—a scrap of metal, a nail, a piece of glass, whatever. Nothing. The slate-colored, cold concrete floor was surprisingly clean, and Sam noticed he had no shoes—just his thin brown socks that were slipping off. His mind turned to his captor—Erik Bjorn—along with an accomplice, possibly more than one. Sam would guess only one besides Bjorn, though, since this seemed to be more of a personal vengeance issue than anything else. Absentmindedly tugging at the ropes at his wrists, Sam almost didn't hear the door behind him open and close, until an unfamiliar voice called, his voice echoing off the high ceiling.

"Sammy boy's up!"

The Winchester gritted his teeth in aggravation—only his family called him that, and they were the only people he could at least tolerate saying it. "Don't call me that," he warned the man, figuring if there was ever a time to use the argument skills he'd learned fighting with his dad so often, it was now. The man he'd seen at the bowling alley—Erik Bjorn—came into view then and stood in front of his captive.

Clicking his tongue softly, Bjorn chided sarcastically, "Ah, ah, we wouldn't want to get worked up. Keep a good attitude, Sam, and hopefully you won't get hurt." The man was slowly losing his ambling mood; his eyes had the color and power of storm clouds rolling across an empty valley. Sam had always been a tall boy, but sitting down in front of this towering man made him understand why little kids got shy around him and his height. Bjorn was clearly a native Scandinavian, with his pale blue-gray eyes and light blonde hair, and he had two thin white scars cutting through his left eyebrow. Sam had never seen him before, or, if Dean was right, he'd seen him as a child and forgotten.

Head throbbing painfully, Sam demanded, low and no-nonsense, "What do you want with me? Where's my brother?"

Bjorn shook his head, telling him, "You don't get to know why you're here. Your brother, however, is at the motel you were staying at. He'll be calling your daddy by now." His tone was vaguely mocking as he paced in front of Sam measuredly.

Realization dawned as the Winchester's lips parted and he said softly, "I'm bait."

"That you are, Sam." Bjorn checked his watch casually. "That you are."

After a beat of aggravating silence, the teenager screamed out, "Help! Help, anyone, I'm—!"

He was cut off by Bjorn backhanding him across the face and kneeling down to seeth quietly, "I'm willing to let this whole thing go down without hurting you. But if you try to draw attention or you're just plain annoying, I _will_ call your father and let him hear you scream. Are we clear?"

Sam spit out the blood in his mouth and, head hung, glared up at Bjorn with fury in his eyes and voice, "We're clear."

"Good," Bjorn snapped, standing up and beginning to walk away. "Hopefully you won't have to see me gut your father in front of you." An ache pulled at Sam's heart and he sagged in the chair lower mournfully. What the hell was he supposed to do?

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

It wasn't very often Dean Winchester felt and acted so desperate as he did now—John was even telling him to calm down. All that mattered to Dean right now was that Sammy was missing and his father wasn't there to handle it. The minute his dad promised he'd be over in a couple hours and hung up, the young man practically tore his hair out—he was going to have to actually wait for up to three hours while God knows what happened to his little brother. It was maddening, and Dean was never really one for patience. What the hell was he supposed to do?


	4. Nightmare in 1985

_"He goes on about demons. A demon killed his wife, he says, and just expects me to believe it. But what he looks like to me is someone who let grief turn him into a monster. Whatever happened to his wife, it doesn't excuse what he's done. And I can't let myself turn into him. I'm not a hunter. I'm a husband and father who wants revenge for his wife."_

~John Winchester's journal, November 21, 1983

John Winchester gripped the steering wheel of his rumbling black truck, muttering curses and trying not to remember what happened with Erik all those years ago. His memory, however, had grown sharp for a reason, and he couldn't help but recall that awful, sticky hot night.

 **Summer 1985**

John hated team-ups. He'd only started hunting a year or two ago, and already he knew it went the same in the buisness, too. But the kid was resolving this hunt to be his last, and who the hell was he to say no to him? Erik Bjorn, twenty-two at the time, met him in Wabasha a week ago, chatting up about ghosts and shit. Erik's father had been a hunter, and he definitely knew the life, that was for sure. However, he had a fiancee now, a pretty young woman, and vowed this was his last hunting bout until they got married—probably for the rest of his life, as well. Daniel had advised John to try a partner hunt out, and then he could decide if he was better alone. The Winchester man had thought this was ridiculous, of course, since he'd be working fine with both Dean and Sammy when they got old enough—besides, who was Elkins to say John need to see more people. At least John wasn't a hermit. Though, he almost wished he was when riding alongside the very talkative Erik Bjorn.

"So, this wendigo comes up out of nowhere, and my dad's like, 'Erik, I've always loved you', as if he's gonna die or something, and I'm telling him, 'Dammit, Dad, don't talk like that'. Then I'm grabbing this big-ass blowtorch I'm really fond of; I call her Sherrie, which is a funny story because—"

"Erik, please shut up," John pleaded, his eyes still on the road but visibly worn out.

Gaining composure, Erik nodded and cleared his throat, apologizing, "Right. Totally, man, sorry." Luckily the rest of the ride—which was being made to Arcadia, Ohio—was cloaked in relative silence. The little town of Arcadia seemed to have a bit of a ghost problem, and John and Erik, in this case, were (affectionately coined by film-buff Erik) the Ghostbusters. John warmed a little at the name, recalling Dean's excitement watching the movie and his declaration that his dad was officially a Ghostbuster.

One cold, rainy night driving from Tennessee to Tallahassee, Dean started singing the theme, and little Sammy shouted, "Ghos-bussers!", even though he didn't know what he was doing it for. But the grins on those boys' faces...John couldn't help but let loose and join them, if only for a while. It was one of the first, if the first, time he'd felt free since Mary was still lived. John tried not to bring Mary up around Erik, but apparently Daniel had already told the young hunter. A speech about comfort and recover, a serious threat from John, and two hours later, the pair of hunters arrived in Arcadia.

The job was surprisingly easy, with no one dead and the worst injury a scraped elbow on Erik. However, John (though he wouldn't admit it) was getting somewhat fond of the kid, and offered to drive Erik right to his house. Bjorn seemed to appreciate working with John, and thanked him along with an invitation to stay for dinner and meet his fiancee. What the hell, the Winchester decided; the boys were at Bobby's and John knew they liked being there. He agreed, parking his Impala on the street and letting Erik lead him to the front door of the lovely, albeit small, yellow-sided house. Ringing the doorbell, they waited until a scurry could be heard behind the door and it swung open, revealing a petite woman smiling sweetly.

"Erik!" she cried, kissing him suddenly, then pulling away and realizing they weren't the only ones there. John stood semi-awkwardly on the cement doorstep, waving hesitantly, and Erik's fiancee, Megan if he remembered correctly, apologized profusely. As the night went on, John got to know the couple, who were a witty, bantering power-couple, if you had to ask him.

Though he felt a little nervous doing it, he stood up at the end of dinner, holding his wine glass up in a toast, and announced, "Erik, I've known you for maybe a couple days, and already I'm damn proud of you. You've got a good house, a hell of a to-be, and...well, I'm glad you're quitting being a hunter." The young man blushed, smiling at his wistfully content fiancee. She knew about her partner's past, and yet, was still willing to look forward and start a life with him.

"So Erik told me earlier you have kids," Megan began, "I'm just curious, but...what's it like?"

Bjorn looked caught off-guard, to say the least, and John chuckled, "They're a handful, definitely. Dean's the big brother, about 6 now, and Sammy's the baby of the family, 2 years old now. Are...are you thinkin about kids?"

Megan smiled and reassured, "I just wanted your view. I won't be thinking kids for a while...at least...well, I don't think so, anyway." Erik exhaled quietly, looking relieved, and Megan laughed softly, the kind of laugh that never tried to draw attention.

After a beat of silence, Erik proclaimed, "John, why don't you stay the night? It's getting really late, and I don't want you on the road at this hour." But as the Winchester began to protest, Megan insisted, and eventually convinced John to stay the night in their guest room. John, admittedly, slept like a baby in the comfort of their cozy, warm home—at least, until 2:46 in the morning on that fateful July weekend.

The most shrill, aggravating screech John had ever heard broke through the night, and he shot up in bed, emotion choking him as he remembered the night Mary's scream had woken him up. What sounded like stumbling, heavy and clumsy, veered closer to John's room and he instinctively reached for the pistol kept under his pillow. He turned to his door, legs still tangled in the sheets as Erik suddenly ran to the doorway, abject terror in his eyes.

"Help me," he choked out, and John noticed the red on his shirt—a gallon's worth, or more.

"Whose blood?" John barked, sharpness in his voice and demeanor that snapped Erik into answering.

"N-not mine..." Erik's eyes welled up, his lips quivering before he whimpered, "It's Megan's."

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

 **Present Day**

John Winchester arrived at the Evergreen Motel barely containing his anxiousness and frustration, slamming his truck door and knocking sharply on the motel door he knew his son would answer. Dean's face showed his relief clearly as he opened it and his father walked in, but his slight smile dropped to a frown when John snapped, "You been drinking again?"

The man's eyes were on the empty bottle on the floor in front of him, and Dean hurried over to kick it under the bed nearby, chuckling, "Root beer, yeah." For a moment it looked like John would say something else on the matter, but after a brief pause, he closed his eyes and sighed deeply, shoulders sagging in defeat.

"You know what, I don't care. Show me the note."

When Dean produced the crumpled paper and gave it to his father, he thought all hell would break loose. But John merely looked sad and defeated, suddenly a very small man as he sat down slowly on the bed closest to him. Breathing soft and shaky, he noticed Dean's concerned expression and told him, "I'm sorry, Dean." Hold up.

The Winchester son's eyebrows furrowed as he tried to process what his father had just said—he'd actually apologized for something. "Sorry about...what?"

Averting his gaze, the man responded quietly, "Sammy's in trouble because I didn't tell you and him about Erik. Not enough, anyway."

"Dad, it's—"

"Let me finish," John cut in sharply, raising his hand briefly. "Erik...was never ready for what happened. In fact, I could've turned out like him if anyone was there the night of..." He cleared his throat softly. "The night your mother was killed. His fiancee reminded me so much of her, I...but that doesn't matter."

After an awkward lull, Dean spoke up, leaned against the wall and facing his dad. "So what happened with Erik?"

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

 **1985**

Gun gripped uncompromisingly and knuckles white, John followed the anxious Bjorn quickly into their room, where broken glass lay in precarious piles of shards, the pure white curtains blowing inwards softly in the freezing nocturnal. Face starkly pale and lips stretched into a carnal grin, Megan leered at the two men from across the room, lilac purple nightgown soaked crimson over her chest and shoulders. John's eyes grew exponentially as he realized the situation, spying the thin pile of sulfur on the windowsill and the ink-black of Megan's eyes that disappeared within a moment.

"It's a demon, Erik," he murmured softly, repositioning his hands on his gun.

The demon in Megan laughed then, if you could call it that. "No shit, Sherlock," 'Megan' hissed, her eyes sliding over to Erik, who was now a whimpering mess.

"Megan? Baby?" he choked out, and John warned him.

"Stay back, Erik. She's not Megan right now."

"Help me, Erik," the demon pleaded, very convincingly playing a distraught young fiancee. Erik's eyebrows slanted upwards, looking desperately hopeful as he took a step forward and reached his hand out towards her.

"Bjorn!" John snapped, pulling him back before addressing 'Megan'. "Who are you?" he demanded, secretly putting his every hope into it being the sunuvabitch who'd murdered Mary only a year and a half ago.

Clicking its tongue and shaking its head slowly, the demon replied, "That's not for you to know, Mr. Winchester." Taken aback, John furrowed his eyebrows and loosened the grip he had on his gun. The demon grinned mischievously, reminding them, "You know, you're gonna have to exorcise me. It's par-for-the-course. So get it over with. I'm ready."

"Not yet," John challenged, earning a sputtered gasp from Bjorn and an eyebrow raise from the demon. "What are you doing here? Why come here and possess Megan?"

Tilting her head and looking mockingly thoughtful, the demon replied in a sickeningly sweet voice, "Mmm, she's just so warm and fuzzy and such a weak _bitch_."

Next to John, Erik's nostrils flared and he balled up his fists tightly. "I'm not going to hurt Megan," Erik promised then, forcing himself to relax and coaxing a frown from the demon.

"Whatever," 'Megan' replied nonchalantly, pretending to examine her nails. "This baby girl's worn through, anyway. Anything else is just excess." A light of inspiration appeared in the demon's eyes that made John feel like hurling and 'Megan' said, "Ooh, could we torch her like we did Mary? That was fun."

"I'm warning you," John growled, his muscles tensing at the mention of his late wife.

The demon let loose a quiet, hissing laugh that made the two men stiffen before 'Megan' said proudly, "Looks like I already hit a nerve. Nerves like John Winchester's are hard to tap. I'm sure poor little Sam and Dean are just full of jitters, though. They'll be easy to scare—fun, actually."

"Shut up!" John snarled, an animalistic rage seething and setting his eyes alight—something that only encouraged the demon.

"Imagine going to them right now and finding their guts handing up like Christmas decorations..."

"I mean it," John chuckled dangerously, a dark humor emerging.

Sing-song, the demon began calling, "Dean and Sammy, strung up in a tree, K-I-L-L-I-N-G—"

Frozen in uncertainty, neither of the men seemed to react as the demon drew closer to them, finally stopping in front of John and smirking slyly before leaning in to whisper into his ear something only he could hear. John's eyes widened and stared at the wall, speechless before his heaving breaths turned into a roar, rage turning his face red and eyes murderous. In a blind fury, red-hot emotion burning through his veins, John Winchester aimed his pistol at the demon in Erik's fiancee's body—and emptied every bullet he had into her.

"No!" Erik screamed as Megan's body staggered deliriously backwards, the initial shock fading fast from her expression and melting into a victorious smile.

"Send me to hell," the demon choked out through the blood in Megan's throat and chest, a wicked grin stretching her face triumphantly and terrifyingly.

Still not himself in all his anger, John recited the shortest exorcism he knew, right then and there: _"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio, et secta diabolica. Ergo draco maledicte, ecclesiam tuam securi tibi, facias libertate servire te rogamus—audi nos!"_

With the last words, the two men braced themselves as the demon threw Megan's head back and let out an unearthly roar before billowing out in its suffocating, pitch-black cloud of smoke. Time seemed to stand still then, until Megan collapsed to the floor near the broken glass and Erik rushed forward in a panic.

"Megan? Megan?" Erik repeated over and over again, pulling her head onto his lap as he knelt down. Her bloody auburn curls splayed over her fiance's legs, and blue eyes unblinking, it was clear to the panting John that Megan Sanders was dead. As this fact sunk in and hit Erik, he began to sob and cradle Megan, every iota of pain and misery in his tears. Those sobs racking Erik's body and cutting through the night haunted John for years to come.


	5. Speakerphone

**Present Day (1999)**

Dean was speechless. What was he supposed to say? John, his father, was quiet, too, but almost pleading with his eyes for Dean to react somehow. Exhaling slowly, Dean finally murmured, "And he blamed you?"

Though quiet for a moment, John replied shortly, "Yes. I'd shot his fiancee, and he hasn't quite thought clearly ever since."

Dean would never tell his father, but he saw the situations frighteningly similar: the only differences were that Erik didn't have children, and he knew exactly who he was going after. A growing lump in his throat and a sense of hopelessness sprouting in his stomach, the younger of the two stood up and began to pace restlessly, choking out, "Dad, how the hell are we going to get Sam out of this He's screwed. Sammy is screwed, and we're not doing a damn thing."

In a bout of anger and desperation, John stood up and snapped, "Sam is going to be fine unless we straight-up _give_ them my ass. We will find a way to get Sam back okay and all of us out of this alive. But if you can't keep your head in all this, then don't bother helping me."

Holding his hands up placatingly, Dean responded quickly, "I'll help, I'll help." His brief fire dying down, John sat back down, running a thick fingered hand through his thick stranded hair. "Should we call anyone?" Dean questioned, sliding his hands into his pockets and pretending to be calm. He always was good at pretending.

John shook his head, his hair swaying eerily similar to Sam's. "No, we can handle this our own damn selves. And...well, if it comes down to it, I'd rather see Sammy let go than get out of town with my life." Dean would have protested, but he knew his father was right. Sam was beyond important to the both of them. In a burst of courage, John strode over to the motel phone and picked it up, lips pursed thinly and determinedly as he punched in the number Dean had found on the back of the note. Heartbeat picking up, Dean shifted his hands in his pockets, tiny droplets of perspiration forming above his upper lip. John appeared to wait for almost a full minute before his face visibly paled, his eyes growing wide and fearful.

"Please don't hurt my boy," he said into the receiver, voice quiet and small. Dean could not hear what Erik was saying, but Sam, however, could.

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

The phone was on speaker, ring tone echoing throughout the structure as Erik knelt down with his cell in hand. "It's your dad," he told Sam triumphantly. "The bastard's finally being a man about it." Erik answered the call then, fully aware of Sam's nostrils flaring and eyes shooting death glares. His voice taking on a placid, mocking tone, Bjorn spoke up the minute he picked up the call. "John! How is your day going?"The man's response came soon after, unusually pleading and hushed.

 _"Please don't hurt my boy."_

Sam felt a pang in his chest, his throat clogging up as he struggled against his bonds yet again. In a surge of desperation, he suddenly yelled so his dad could hear, "Dad, don't come; it's a trap—!"

"Shut up," Erik hissed, not hanging up, but with his free hand slapping the boy so hard Sam's vision blurred.

 _"Hey!"_ John snapped, suddenly aggressive. _"Don't hurt him, we can work this out, Bjorn."_

After a stagnant pause, Sam's head hung low as he breathed quietly, Erik disregarded John's plea and went conversationally, "You know, Megan wanted kids. She always did—admitted it the night you killed her." Raising his head immediately, Sam's eyes widened and looked at Erik—had his father really killed a woman? "Aw, little Sammy looks like he doesn't know," Bjorn teased after John said nothing in reply. Erik went on, "In fact, if we would've had a kid when I was twenty, before marriage...he'd be about Sam's age." He gingerly ran his fingers over Sam's hair, causing the kid to turn his head away with a sick feeling in his stomach and a grimace.

"Let me go," Sam demanded, his voice hardly above a harsh whisper.

"I don't know," Erik mused, at this point only addressing a still silent John through the phone. "Maybe I'll keep him around. As a pet, maybe? No—a son."

 _"You're crazy,"_ John breathed, speechless otherwise.

Sam avoided looking at Bjorn, who had stood up (though still close) and was laughing dangerously. "Well, shit, I wonder what drove me to it." When no response came on the other line, Erik lost patience and suddenly, violently grabbed ahold of Sam's ever-growing brown-gold hair, eliciting an injured gasp from the kid. "Did you hear that, John?" Erik hissed, "That's the sound of your son in pain. And believe me, it can get a whole lot worse. So why don't you come— _alone_ , goddammit, _alone_ —to the empty warehouse on 15th and Haggerty. I'll be waiting." Hanging up and shoving his phone in his pocket, Bjorn let go of Sam's hair with a jerk.

Stifling any noise he might make, Sam glared up at his captor, conveying in his eyes every inch of disdain, anger, and questioning he felt. Glancing over at his captive, Erik scoffed, "What, no witty comeback? Biting comment? Nothing?" Sam kept his eyes on the man and lips firmly clenched in a tight line, and Bjorn rolled his eyes. Instead, the man sat down, knees folded in front of him and fingers interlocked around them. Gray eyes fiercely determinate, he stared straight ahead, seeming to get lost in his thought before speaking up. "You seem like a smart kid, Sam. How old are you again?"

Caught off-guard by such a simple, trivial question from his kidnapper, Sam stuttered a moment before answering hesitantly, "Uh—um—I'm-I'm sixteen today."

"Shitty birthday," Erik remarked, and the teenager wondered why the man who wanted to kill his father as so conversational. "Damn," Bjorn murmured, staring at the opposite wall absentmindedly, "that means Megan's been dead for 14 years. What the hell."

Curiosity piqued, Sam inquired softly, "Who's Megan? Why did you say...?" He didn't finish, but Erik eventually did for him.

"He killed her?" he asked, his tone bitter.

"I'm sure he didn't mean—" Sam began, but was interrupted by Erik's humorless chuckle.

"No, he meant it, alright. But you...you're a pain, but you don't seem like your dad. Why?"

His question seemed genuine, and though thoroughly confused with the nature of the conversation, Sam replied honestly in measured speech, "I don't know. I—I guess I've just never followed him like Dean does." Gulping deeply, Sam felt his fingers tingle and his eyebrow twitch—had he really just said all that aloud? It could have been worse, but why was he telling these things to a psycho like Bjorn? Sure, his fiancee's death was tragic, and who the hell knew what John actually had done...but brooding over it for 14 years? But Sam knew why Bjorn really disturbed him. He was too much like his father, and not his best side. John Winchester had been hunting his wife's killer for _16 years_. Mulling over tragedies was clearly not a good thing for people like Erik and John.

Sam made up his mind to not say anything else, and Erik, to his surprise, simply stood up and walked out. Something deep inside Sam felt sorry for Bjorn, though—what if you thought it was solely one single human being's fault for the death of a loved one, knowing they were still out there and completely capable of being found guilty, unlike the near-unkillable thing that had killed Mary Winchester. He didn't know if Bjorn was even remotely telling the truth, but there was a sick, clawing feeling in the pit of his stomach that reminded him there was always a possibility Erik was right.

 _'At least I'm not blindly following Dad,'_ Sam thought, simultaneously hating himself for questioning his dad's innocence. And, putting away every last hope into the wish that Dean bust in and save him right then, Sam softly exhaled and began to pray.


	6. A Swift Spiral Downward

Dean's impatience was driving his father to near-madness, until John finally snapped, "Dean, you'd better calm the hell down or I will drop you off to the side of the street right now. Are we clear?" After the twenty year-old gulped and nodded, John made the right turn necessary and went on, "If we get too worked up, all it's going to do is get Sammy killed and us in a load of shit."

He was right, of course, Dean reasoned, feeling an involuntary shiver trace down his spine as he looked out the rolled-down window in his dad's black truck. Bjorn would pay big-time for even touching his little brother, and Dean focused on that anger inside him to gain a clear head. Though the two were planning on charging in, guns blazing, they had no strategy beyond that. There was an unearthly chill to the air blowing off the wet streets, as if the cold night had tangible hands that were reaching out. Dean Winchester couldn't shake the foreboding, sinking feeling that something would go horribly wrong. Hostage situations were never expected to go well, but there was something off—more than usual, anyway.

Once John turned on Haggerty, Dean blurted, "I don't know about this, Dad," feeling foolish but knowing he had to say something.

John's eyes kept on the road, sharp and focused as he told his son, "Trust me, Dean, I know this is not a good situation, but we will do the best we can do to get Sammy out of there. Erik can't be so dangerous he'd kill him..." He trailed off then as he pulled up to the warehouse and made eye contact with Bjorn, who was leaning against the building, glaring at them through his cigarette's smoke. Dropping the glowing object and putting it out with the toe of his boot, Erik stood up straight and dared them with his storm-gray eyes to move, speak, breathe.

Exhaling slowly, John opened his truck door and hopped out, his son soon following suit. "Let's finish this," John growled, and Erik's nostrils visibly flared. "Dean, go find your brother," he told his son, eyes never leaving Bjorn.

But as the uncertain Winchester began to make towards a door to his left, Bjorn chided, "Ah, ah, ah, not yet." Upon John's narrowed eyes and Dean's frown, the Scandinavian explained, "I'll need both your weapons now. _All_ of them." His expression was vaguely triumphant as the Winchesters present dropped their guns and knives reluctantly. After all weapons were at Erik's feet, Dean spoke up.

"Bjorn, we know you have others with you. It wouldn't be a fair fight until we know where they were."

Erik looked almost thoughtful as he bit his lip softly and then told them, "You're right. It wouldn't. Unfortunately for you, however, I never said this would be a fair fight." As if from the shadows or some long-forgotten nightmare, three people emerged and stood behind him—but they were far more than just people. The Winchester's eyes widened as they realized what they were up against: one woman and one man stood growling softly, eyes glowing blue and both fingernails and teeth elongated—werewolves. And the third? A man with a cruel smile and eyes so black no light could ever reach them—a demon.

"This is who you're taking up with?" John cried, wishing for all his worth he had a shotgun in his hands. "Monsters? Demons?"

"That hurt," the demon mockingly remarked, placing a hand over his chest and feigning indignation.

"Shut up," Dean snapped, finally coming out of his initial shock.

Erik scoffed. "You'd be surprised how many people want you dead, John. I simply told them who I was after, and they were more than willing to get a chance at killing you. I guess that's what happens when you're a heartless bastard."

"She was already dead, Bjorn," Dean cut in, freezing Erik in his tracks and causing his father to shoot him a 'what are you doing?' Glance.

After a painful, drawn-out moment of nothing, Erik whispered dangerously, "What did you say?" Yes. Antagonize him.

"Look, I'm sorry about your wife, but this is ridiculous. You should be going after the demon who possessed her, not the guy who tried to save her!"

"Fiancee," Bjorn said then quietly. "Not wife. I never got to marry her, because John Winchester murdered her." His hands were shaking now, a vein in his neck bulging as he breathed heavily. "We could have saved her, if we had just exorcised the damn thing when we got to her." Looking John dead in the eye, he went on. "I was the strong one that night, John. I wasn't going to hurt Megan. I told myself, Winchester's a man of honor. Of courage. He would never...ever do something so stupid. But you let yourself get distracted, became a target. You, John Winchester, are a coward, and deserve whatever shit happens to you."

Dean, breaths shaky and shallow, glanced over at his pale and dreading father. John looked so apologetic, but the moment he started to speak up, Erik cut in, sounding resigned and bitter. "Kill them both," he ordered the two behind him, who looked pleased at such an order.

Panic rising, the Winchesters eyed their weapons on the ground and tensed up, Dean calling out desperately as Bjorn walked to the building's closest door, "Wait! I don't have anything to do with this and neither does Sam. What are you going to do with him?"

And through his brokenness, Erik Bjorn looked over his shoulder at Dean with a devilish smile and told him, "I like Sam far too much. I'm keeping him."

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

Through Sam's mutterings to a God whose existence he wasn't certain of, he began to hear sounds of fighting—sharp blows, cries of pain, shuffles and bangs. Trying to yet again force feeling back into his bound hands and feet, he craned his neck over to see the door behind him just as Erik stormed in, a frightening madness in his eyes. The man hurriedly strode over to Sam, pulling out a pocket knife and beginning to hack through the ropes.

"What are you doing?" the Winchester asked incredulously, flexing his hands as soon as they were free. "Is my dad here?"

"I'm your dad now," Erik snapped, causing Sam to scoff.

"What? You're seriously going to—" But he stopped short as Bjorn raised his knife dangerously close to his neck.

"We're not like the others, Sam. John, Dean, those creatures they're battling—"

"What?" Sam cried, now knowing what the fighting was about.

Erik ignored him, continuing to rant, "—they're all poison, looking for things to suck the life out of. If we're not careful, we can become the things they feed on, but Sam...you and I are different."

"What do you mean?" Sam pleaded as Erik pulled him to his feet. His legs were still weak as he stumbled on the cold, concrete floor, his feet still bare.

"You're coming with me," Bjorn hissed, and Sam couldn't stop thinking that the man needed help.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," he told Bjorn firmly, standing stiffly so the man couldn't drag him anymore. In one fluid motion then, Erik grabbed Sam by his hair and pulled him into an embrace, his hand still grasping a handful of hair. Sam was breathing shakily now, his face pressed against Bjorn's shoulder and his scalp on fire—after a grueling moment, he tried to speak up with his mouth still mostly covered. "Bjorn, don't—"

"Shut up," Erik snarled, then breathed quietly before going on, "You remind me too much of Megan. You're the kind of kid she'd want to have, you know."

Closing his eyes and trying to calm his adrenaline rushing, Sam eventually replied, "She wouldn't have wanted you to do this—killing my dad and my brother, taking me God know where—would she?" Erik said nothing, which encouraged Sam to continue. Pulling away just enough to look the man in the eyes, he went on, "I've had someone close to me die; I know what it feels like. But revenge? This kind? It just leads to more pain. It's never what they want. I didn't know your fiancee, but I doubt she would want to see you become a killer."

Erik was frozen now, eyes fixed on a point behind Sam and his grip on him easing. A scream outside startled the two, though, and shook Erik out of whatever thought process he'd been in. "Dad! Dean!" Sam yelled, desperately trying to break free of Bjorn's hold. "Let me go," he snapped at Erik, though he didn't listen. "Dean!" the teenager shouted once more before the man holding his forearms shook him and barked.

"Hey!"

Sam blinked at him.

"I'll call off the werewolves and the demon," he hissed.

"The what?!" Sam cried, and Bjorn hastily shushed him.

His face took on a cold expression as he told his captive, "What you said makes sense. Megan would hate all this." Sam sighed, looking relieved as he opened his mouth to speak—but was interrupted. "But for some reason, I just can't find it in me to care. She's _dead_ , Sam. There's no reversing that, and no saying goodbye. And hell, it sounds trite, but revenge is the only thing I have left."

After a puzzling moment, Sam screwed up his eyebrows and slowly began, "And this means..."

Erik's cold gray eyes focused on Sam and, jaw set and expression heartless, he informed the young man, "It means I've thought of a better way to hurt John. I won't kill him; that's far too kind. But if he never sees his youngest son again..."

Terror bloomed in Sam's stomach as he choked out a few unintelligible curses and struggled with all his might against Bjorn. But the man's grip was uncompromising, and soon Erik called out towards the door, "If they're still alive, Jordan, let them go."

One last 'oof!' sounded before silence came. "What?" someone shouted incredulously. "Erik, my brother is dead now, and the Winchesters are looking at us like we're dead meat!"

"Huh," Bjorn said quietly to himself, "I had bet on the bitch losing first." Sam struggled again, and sucked in a breath to shout, but Erik covered his mouth with his own large hand. "Jordan, tell the demon he can run along now, and tell the Winchesters to come inside. I've got a surprise for 'em." Sam was now thrashing, attempting to bite Erik's hand and scream at the top of his lungs, which was muffled, at best.

"Kids," Bjorn sighed, "Never can get 'em to sit still." And out of his pocket, he produced what Sam soon felt was an intravenous needle that was promptly jabbed into the teenager's neck, injecting a cold, sleepy liquid that Sam felt the effects of almost immediately. He wasn't out yet, though. He simply stopped struggling and felt his body get heavier by the second, Erik supporting him and eventually setting him back down in the chair behind him. At that moment, the two older Winchesters rushed in, but stopped short when they saw Sam in the chair, eyelids drooping and arms hanging uselessly over the sides.

John was trying to approach cautiously, eyes on Erik tentatively, but there was a look of pure rage on Dean's face as he growled, "What did you do to Sammy?" Bjorn had his hands clasped behind his back, standing up stiffly straight and eyeing John and Dean coldly. "I said what did you do to my little brother, you son of a bitch!" Dean snarled, needing his father to hold him back so he wouldn't leap forward and attack Erik right on the spot.

Erik waited for a moment, then told the two, "Sam's coming with me. I'll let you both go—but where I'm taking Sam, you'll never see him again. And you'll have to live with that...for the rest of your life."

John's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared, anger coursing through his veins—he was mirroring now the same fury Dean was exhibiting. Sam's brother looked ready to jump the man, but lighting fast, Erik suddenly whipped a gun out, aiming the pistol at John and Dean. Both got their hands up, backing up and knowing Erik gave no empty threats. He was unhinged, and however cold and emotionless his facial expression, his blue-gray eyes edged on a mad glint that Dean had seen too many times before.

A small, proud smirk tugged at the corners of Erik's lips as he took hold of the near-unconscious sixteen year old and began to drag him towards the open door, gun still aimed at Dean and his father. And with a wicked grin, the last thing he said to the elder of the two came out plainly.

"Hope I see you in hell, John Winchester."


	7. Yes

The first thing Sam heard was his own breathing. It reassured him—he was alive, at least. His stomach lurched and twisted: he was in a moving car, he could tell that much even before he willed his eyes to open. Sam's eyelids were still heavy and his movements were still somewhat sluggish, but eventually he sat up and rubbed his face tiredly, taking in the scene immediately. He'd been leaning on the door of the passenger side of the car he was in—something elevated, by the looks of it; probably a truck. Out the window, a black, barren husk of a night rushed by Sam, and have him no clue as to how far and how much he'd been traveling. And the driver? Erik Bjorn sat, hands gripping the wheel and fierce determination clearly visible. Something about Erik had always made Sam uneasy, but now...the clear insanity in the man's eyes and actions scared him, and he wondered for the first time if he was going to make it out of there alive. His wrists were tied haphazardly in front of him and AC was being blasted through vents, causing Sam to shiver and quietly rub his feet together. Okay. Stop. Think.

Should he talk? Speak up? Hope that whatever had happened while he'd been out had changed Erik's mind? Were his father and brother trailing in John's black truck right now? It was unrealistic, was what it was—painfully unrealistic. Daring a quick glance at Bjorn, Sam got a glimpse of the stopping-at-nothing expression he'd unfortunately seen before in his father, and realized that, unless he did something...Sam would never know freedom again. Erik would lock him up, taunt him, keep him caged...or even worse, the man would be so haunted with delusions that he'd attempt to be fatherly and soft on him. His hands began to buzz with adrenaline as he considered all possibilities, and finally decided to take a chance with one potential outcome.

And so, in a split-second decision, Sam reached over, grabbed the steering wheel...and turned it harshly on its axis. The car swerved then, Erik yelling and trying to push Sam away, but it was too late. Not even two seconds later, the car smashed into a telephone pole.

SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN

An EKG's steady beeping could be heard as Sam woke up, accompanied by the smell of anesthetics and the sound of Dean's incessant worried murmuring. Coughing softly and shifting his

shoulder, Sam's movement caught his brother's attention and Dean called over his shoulder, "Dad, he's up!"

Soon John Winchester was at Sam's bedside, kneeling next to Dean and looking enormously relieved. "What happened, son?" he inquired patiently, and Sam's eyes adjusted to the fluorescent lights above him.

"Um...," he started, but cleared his throat due to his croaky voice. Continuing with a clearer voice, Sam answered, "I woke up in the passenger seat of a car, and I..." He paused. "I swerved the wheel and it crashed. Did—is Erik okay?"

His dad glanced over at Dean and shared a knowing look with him before admitting, "Bjorn's dead. The car was going real fast, and he didn't have his seatbelt on, so he flew out...yeah. He didn't survive." There was a moment of contemplative silence, with ringing phones and footsteps and quiet voices as background noise.

"How did you know to come here?" Sam asked, finally sparking conversation.

Dean, who'd previously been humming Metallica under his breath absentmindedly and tapping his fingers with an anxious energy, spoke up then. "We tailed you two. Covertly, yeah, but we saw the crash from a ways off."

Smiling gently and taking Dean's hand, Sam reassured his brother softly, "Hey. Dean, I'm okay. I promise."

An hour or two later—after the nurse came in and explained that Sam had a pretty bad concussion, a sprained wrist, and a cracked rib—John was conked out on a chair near the back of the room and Dean was still fervently at Sam's bedside. "Pretty crappy sixteenth birthday, huh?" Dean chuckled, his anxiety slowly dying down.

"Yeah. Crappy," Sam intoned, and softly bit his lip before asking his brother in a serious manner, "Dean, do you think Dad would've ended up like Erik if things had been different?"

Dean let out a weak, nervous laugh, sputtering and asking, "What—what—honestly—what kinda question—why would you—"

"Dean," Sam said gravely, giving his brother a hard look that went beyond his sixteen years. He was tired of the avoiding, of the pretending, of saying everything was alright when it never was. He wanted the truth of Dean's thoughts, and his expression told Dean this clearly.

The older brother paused then, gnawing on the inside of his cheek and beginning to stare out the window facing them. "God, Sammy," he breathed, feeling stuck with such a question. Glancing over at his father, who was sleeping in a green hospital chair with a vodka bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag at his feet, Dean finally murmured a quiet but unyielding, "Yes."

 **~End~**


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